Still Alive
by Gallows Calibrator
Summary: What if Penny didn't die when the Death Ray hit her? She goes into a comatose state, then wakes up a year later to see that everything is not what it used to be. Eventual Billy/Penny. T for language etc. CURRENTLY ON HIATUS FOR A MAJOR OVERHAUL. :D
1. Prologue: Memories

Disclaimer: Patrick Harris, Day, Fillion, Whedon, Whedon. No md427 in there. :(

A/N: Well, here it is. My first fic, so don't be too harsh. ^^

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"Captain Hammer will save us."

His first feelings are those of rage. How can she think of _him_ at a time like this? Here she is, _dying_, and she thinks that some guy in a transparent superhero disguise in going to save her. Doesn't she realise what the so-called 'captain' really is? That all he cares about is sex and fame? Why, even after all of this, even in her last moments, does she still think that this Hammer-man does his job for the sake of the civilians? Doesn't she see that she is but a tool to him? That once somebody better comes along, she'll mean nothing to him?

But then Billy's feelings turn into those of sadness, guilt, remorse, and even pity. He realises it's all _his_ fault that she is here, slumped against a wall, a bit of a rather temperamental death ray sticking out of her. It's _his _fault for introducing his nemesis to the girl of his dreams. It's _his_ fault for wanted to join the Evil League of Evil so badly that he would even murder another to be accepted. If he hadn't wanted to be recognised, if he had just wanted to stay a nobody, where would things have ended up? He wouldn't have needed to steal the Wonderflonium for his time-stopping ray. He wouldn't have introduced Captain Hammer to Penny. He wouldn't have needed to prove himself to the thoroughbred of sin.

If only he had stayed that quiet dreamer-boy at the Laundromat, Wednesdays and Saturdays, thinking of that beautiful girl and thinking of new ways to earn her love.

It's my fault, he thinks as he watches the light fade from her eyes. It's my fault, he thinks as he watches her chest cease to move. It's my fault, he thinks as he lifts the captain's late girlfriend from the floor. It's my fault, he thinks as he carries the limp Penny as gently as a mother might handle her baby. It's my fault, he thinks as he carefully places the lifeless body of the girl who he so wanted to be his onto the gurney and watches her being wheeled away.

And as the newest member of the Evil League of Evil takes his places in the only unoccupied chair at the conference table, there is only one thought going through his mind. It's my fault.

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A/N: Well? Lovett? Hatett? Please review!

It looked waay longer when it was on paper. :|


	2. Chapter 1: More Than Just a Name

A/N: Hey everyone, I'm back (without the license of ownership to Dr Horrible, mind you) with chapter 2! Just to clear up something, chapter 1 was just memory from the past that Billy dreams about.

Billy's being pretty introspective in this chapter too. |D

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The familiar ringing of his cellphone wakes him up from his long—albeit nightmare-ridden—slumber. Groaning as he turns over and the sun assaults his sleep-clouded eyes, he fumbles for the offending and flips it open. However, this turns out to be a huge mistake; with an irritated sigh, he muffles his ears with his rather limp pillow as the cowboys serenade him:

"Bad Horse, Bad Horse..."

He practically slams the phone shut once he hears the singing men conclude with their signature "Signed Bad Horse" and catapults it across his room, wincing slightly as he hears the loud _craaack _it makes upon colliding with the wall. Oh well, he thinks, it's time that he bought a new one anyway. He makes a mental note to himself to not get one with as high a volume setting as the one that currently lies of the floor, a rather large crack splitting it nearly in two.

Turning his eyes on his alarm clock and muffling a curse when he sees how late it is, he heaves himself out of bed with a grunt; he had been awake at one o'clock this morning, working on a new project. He barely had had enough energy to drag himself from his laboratory to the small, messy cot that he retired to every evening. Or rather, morning: for he is indeed awake for the better part of every evening, toiling away in his laboratory.

Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Dr. Horrible strips himself of his lab coat, boots, gloves and goggles, then sets to work searching for his civilian clothes and pulls on the only clean garments he can find: a faded blue hoodie and navy jeans. He has to pay a visit to the Laundromat soon, Billy reminds himself. It's strange, how a chore he had once looked forward to has now becomes something he neglects.

Billy shakes his head violently to rid himself of these thoughts, He's thinking of her again. No matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise, he knows, deep down, that he is responsible for her death.

With a sharp intake of breath Bill sits on the edge of his unmade bed, head in his hands. It's _her_ he always thinks about when he doesn't have anything else to occupy his mind: that's half of the reason why he stays up late into the night, working on meaningless projects. For if he doesn't then he sees her: the handle of his death ray protruding from her, draining her of life. Her brown eyes dulling as she takes her final breath. Her limp body, still warm in his arms as he carries her to the gurney.

The other half, of course, is for the Evil League of Evil, the despicable organisation that Billy is proud to say he's a part of. No, _Dr. Horrible_ is proud to be in the League. Billy died along with Penny. Billy is just a name he uses for identification purposes. He is Dr. Horrible. Dr. Horrible.

The word echoes in his head. _Horrible._ He certainly _is_ horrible, not o be mistaken. _Horrible._ He defeated the corporate tool called Captain Hammer, who, as it happened to be, is still in therapy. _Horrible..._

It's his past, present and future.

Horrible.

He is the Doctor Horrible.

_And he doesn't feel anything...

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_

A/N: Review?


	3. Chapter 2: Sleeping, Not Dead

A/N: Three chapters in as many days. :D I like how this is going.

I know this isn't that long, hopefully I'll have the new chapter up soon.

Disclaimer: Nope.

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Gloved hands search frantically for a pulse. Sure she can't be dead, not the Captain's girlfriend—!

Andrew Zimmerman, MD, clutches her limp wrist with his latex-cased hand, desperate to find just one sign that Penny could still be alive. But he feels no blood pumping through her veins. She can't be dead. He will not _allow_ it. He can't lose another patient, not after—

He releases grip on her wrist to press two fingers to her throat, hoping, _praying _he'll feel blood traveling her arteries...

"She's alive!" The doctor yells to companions. "Her pulse is faint, but it's there!"

"Are you sure?" Zachariah Smith inquires. He utters an "Ohmygod" upon verifying what Dr. Zimmerman has discovered.

"She needs life support, stat!" the doctor who had recently learned of Penny survivals calls as he rushes out of the patient's room.

* * *

In a matter of hours, Penny Jane Hope is surrounded by a plethora of machinery, checking her pulse, pumping her blood, filling her lungs with air.

She is not dead. She is sleeping.

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Yeah, I got the title of this chapter from the person that writes to Billy right before My Freeze Ray, called Dead Not Sleeping.

For Penny name, I took Jane Eyre (I assume you all know who she is, right?) and Antony Hope (the author of The Prisoner of Zenda, also the sailor boy in Sweeney Todd) and combined them. The name Hope just seems to fit, no?:)

Also, since I forgot to mention in the last two chapters, the idea for this fic came from The Happy Monkey of Doom.

Review?


	4. Chapter 3: Visitors

A/N: Sorry that this took so long! But I have several good reasons: 1) I got fever and strep throat on Friday, and was in bed until Monday. 2) I was given a load of homework, since my English class started a new novel. 3) I've been getting more homework than usual, and the only times I've been able to get on the computer were for homework.

Anyway! About this chapter: It's mainly a filler chap, just giving some background details about Penny, and I hate it. But I would love you if you reviewed. Oh, and I would like to thank my lovely reviewers, The Happy Monkey of Doom, Kyuubikitsune9, onangredwarf, and Baratsuki.

Anyways, onto the story!

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A man opens the door number 186 soundlessly with one hand, the other clutching a bouquet of gillyflowers—he knows that she loves them.

"Hey, little sis," Terry Hope says softly as if Penny can hear him. "I brought you gillies. Your favourite, remember?" He gently places the bunch of flowers on the table that stands next to the hospital bed.

Taking her limp hand in his own, he sighs.

"Sorry, Penny," He begins, and tears start to form at the corners of his eyes. "I guess I was kinda harsh on you, huh?"

He takes a deep breath, knowing that he was more than just 'kinda harsh' that day. Tears freely flow down his face as he remembers exactly _why_ Penny was such an active volunteer at the Caring Hands homeless shelter.

_Penny Hope was barely able to get by._ _Her parents were dead of a small flu outbreak in the neighborhood; she had been fired from yet another job and evicted from the third time this month._

_She hated relying on anybody else, but she was broke, homeless, starving and unemployed. There was no choice but to turn to the only living relative in the area, her older brother._

_However, as much Penny hated relying on other, Terry hated others relying on him even more. When she turned up at his apartment door, and explanation ready on her lips, Terry flat out refused to let her have so much as a glance at the room inside, saying that he didn't want to have another burden: his girlfriend lived with him already. She had grown up lost and lonely; not wanted others to endure the same hardships that she had encountered, Penny worked as a volunteer for the Caring Hands homeless shelter ever since._

Terry didn't even remember that he had a sister until the day where he was informed that she was in a coma. For their own reason, Terry suspects, this bit of information has been excluded from the press; as far as the rest of the world knew, Penny is dead as dirt.

Because of him, Penny had grown up on the streets, where she seemed to be a trouble magnet: attracting every bit of bad luck to her. Misfortune, it seemed, had the hunting pattern of a shark: with its sight set on Penny, it ignored all of the other perfectly good targets all around it.

"Sorry, sis," Terry repeats as he wipes the tears from his face. "Sorry," he whispers as he presses his lips to her forehead in a gentle kiss. "Get better, huh?"

And as he stands up and walks toward the door, he swears he hears a soft, barely audible "Apology accepted" from behind him.

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A/N: Well, that's it for chapter 4. I'm working on chapter 5, hopefully it'll be up soon. And if you're wondering where I got Terry's name from, it's from the amazing author Terry Pratchett. Oh, and also, since I forgot to mention in the last chapters, the title of this comes from the end credits song from the game Portal. And the gillyflowers are from Sweeney Todd too. :)

Please review!


	5. Chapter 4: Meetings and Shocks

A/N: Hooray, Chapter 5! Or rather, Chapter 4, since 'Memories' seemed more of a prologue. Oh, and if you haven't noticed already I changed my name to Resplendent Shadows, because I'm md427 on almost every site that I register on, no matter what it is. So I was talking to my friend and we decided that Resplendent Shadows is a cool name. :) As for this chapter, it's a bit longer. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own the soundtrack and Commentary track. That's gotta count for something, right? :(

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It is a picture-perfect day in Los Angeles: A robin's-egg blue sky holds a brightly shining sun and is dotted with puffy, cotton clouds. A gentle breeze is present, ruffling the hair and clothes of the happy-go-lucky citizens, all of whom are in the park or on their front porch, making the most of this beautiful day: everyone is euphoric with the change in the recently gloomy weather.

No, not quite everyone.

In a building oblivious to the joy of the people inhabiting the city it lays in the outskirts of, a meeting exclusive to the members of a certain league takes place. Ten people and one animal are gathered around an elliptic table: A dirty-blonde who looked to be in his late 20s with goggles concealing his eyes and shiny black gloves encasing his hands, a red labcoat fastened to his person; a rather boring-looking, professor-like being, with a grey sweater-vest over a grey tie and a cyborg jaw; a man who looks as if he has come directly from a colonial American textbook, holding a large quill pen (although the effect is slightly marred by the pink sash he dons); Someone with a rock-star outfit in shades of blues and greys with a red-and-white painted face; a masked lady sporting a necklace with a peace pendant and wearing a vivid dress; a woman with black curly hair and wearing a white bridal gown, holding a bouquet of flowers; a woman with a ridiculously large headdress similar to a cobra's hood, holding a staff with a snake entwined around it, topped by a disco ball.

And at the head of the table, the apparent ruler of this strange group stands tall: a milk-chocolate coloured horse with a long, dark mane and a streak of white running down his snout. He is flanked by three men dressed as cowboys, false moustaches and all: these men are apparently this horse's interpreters.

* * *

The thoroughbred of sin taps his foot on the carpeted floor twice: After two months' worth of meetings, Dr. Horrible has learned that this is the signal to commence the meeting.

The first to speak is Professor Normal. He clears his throat—the doctor in red mentally winces; having worked with a vocal coach, he knows that clearing your throat is _very_ bad for your voice.

He turns his attention back on the man with the cyborg jaw as he begins to speak.

"I believe that we are in need of some reinforcements," He states in his usual monotone, "I have been working on guard cyborgs since out last meeting, and have successful managed to—" He is cut off by a snort from Dead Bowie.

"We already have enough guards, Boring," The former rock star says, using the nickname that he always calls Normal. "'Sides, who's to say that these cyborgs are better than your last ones?" He is referring to the two robots brought to last meeting, a month ago: one had malfunctioned while trying to deliver an orange cream soda to Tie-Die and exploded; leaving bits of itself embedded into walls and tangled in hair, but luckily nobody had been harmed.

"Those were _prototypes_, Bowie," Normal spits, "I already _said_ that I wasn't sure what would happen with them. The cream soda must have short-circuited it."

"And that's not gonna happen again, I see," Dead Bowie replies sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "You don't think that human guards're good enough?"

"We can't afford more guards," Tie-Die speaks for the first time. "With out budget as low as it is, it's a miracle that these guards are still working for such little pay."

"Exactly my point!" The professor bursts out, "With _robots_ as guards, we needn't _worry_ about such trivial things as salaries and—"

"And how much will it cost to _make_ and _programme_ the robots?" Fury Leika interjects. "Much more, I should thing, than just using human security guards."

"Yes, but—"

And so the conversation goes, until the conference hall is filled with the argumentative shouts of Professor Normal and Dead Bowie, and the 'please be reasonable' statements of Tie-Die and Fury Leika. The only human members that aren't participating in this dispute are Fake Thomas Jefferson, who has 'taken the fifth' and Dr. Horrible, who is too busy staring to space to concern himself with the insignificant importance of security guards.

* * *

Back in Los Angeles, it had started to rain. A drizzle at first, in thirty minutes' time water is falling on Earth in torrents. All of the people who were enjoying the beautiful day this once was are now inside their homes, the youngest of them with tears running down their red faces, thinking that if they screamed enough, the rain would be frightened away and it would be dry and sunny once more.

A door opens up at the sound of something hitting it. Jonathan Doyle, or rather (as he insists on being called), Johnny Snow carefully picks up the sopping plastic bag containing today's paper and takes it inside, dumping it on the inside doormat and proclaiming, "Mom, the mail's home" before going back to his room.

A few minutes later a sharp gasp from downstairs startles him out of his alien-killing spree, and he watches miserably as one of the said aliens devours his character.

"What is it?" Johnny grumbles as he reaches the kitchen, where his mother is sitting at the table, a shocked look plastered on her face.

He looks over her shoulder at the newspaper and his jaw drops.

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A/N: Well, there you have it, Chapter 4! Or 5, depending on how you look at it. This is my first chapter that's longer than one page in MS word! :D Hooray! XD Please review! Everytime you don't a robot will explode! :D


	6. Chapter 5: Breathing

A/N: Holy shit, this hasn't been updated in a long time. o.O Terribly sorry, stupid school has been taking most of my free time.

Disclaimer: Don't remind me.

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**BREAKING NEWS: CAPTAIN'S GIRLFRIEND ALIVE!!!!!**

By Lisa Lassek

Yes, you read right. Penny Hope, who you all thought was dead, is actually alive. She could be better, of course; I have been able to talk to Dr. A. Zimmerman, a doctor at the hospital where Penny is being held. He has revealed that she is in a coma and has been for the last two months. When she will wake up, who knows? Only time can tell. Captain Hammer is, of course, ecstatic with this news. In fact, tears come to his eyes at this joyous revelation. Unfortunately, he hasn't gotten the chance to visit her yet, for reasons unknown.

But the question still remains: _why wasn't this information released sooner?! _Surely it didn't take two months for these doctors to realise that she was alive? Was it to create a stir? An explosion in the press world? The answers to these questions remain unknown.

"So, she's alive then?" Johnny says softly.

* * *

Dr. Horrible splashes through the streets, impatient to return to his comfy, warm and _dry_ living quarters and into some clean clothes, hopefully ones that aren't soaked by the downpour of water falling from the sky.

He nearly sighs with relief when he spots his unique freeze-ray mailbox through his rain-clouded goggles. Kicking the waterlogged newspaper leaning against his door, Dr. Horrible shoves a key into the door and rotates it.

Finally, the doctor thinks as he pushes the door inward and is rewarded with the heavenly warmth that the furnace has created.

Dr. Horrible kicks off the ebony boots that are filled with rainwater and sheds himself of his sopping labcoat. He walks to the disheveled room that could be called a bedroom and takes a black t-shirt and faded jeans from a light beige laundry basket lying on the hardwood floor. The doctor unbuttons his labcoat and pulls the civilian clothes over his person then flops onto the untidy cot tucked in a corner of the tiny room. He tears the dripping goggled from his face and tosses them carelessly away from his.

Billy pulls a red fleece blanket over his shivering body and closes his eyes.

"Goodnight, Penny," He whispers to the empty room before drifting off into a troubled sleep ridden with dead redheads and death rays.

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A/N: Yeah, it's short and crappy, I know. :( If all goes according to plan, the next chapter should be up soon, but this whole day hasn't gone so. (Sorry, I just couldn't resist a Corpse Bride ref!) Lisa Lassek is the editor for the Blog, according to the credits. :p Oh, and I've noticed that some naughty people have favourited and alerted this story but haven't left reviews! Please review! D:


	7. Chapter 6: Dreams and Nightmares

A/N: Ohai everyone, I'm back! :D Sorry for the long wait, school has gotten in the way. I also had this typed, but I didn't have internet connection for a few days. D: But school lets out next week, so I'll be able to update sooner. :D Oh, and the full title is 'Sweet Dreams and Bitter Nightmares,' but it doesn't fit. :c

Disclaimer: I totally disagree with that 'Nobody wants to be Moist.' If I _were_ Moist, then at least I would be part of the production of Dr Horrible. Alas, I am not.

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"P-penny..." Billy swallows, unable to speak, unable to move, unable to do anything—save for staring at the body lying in front of him. His thoughts are racing. No, it can't be, not his Penny, not—

"Billy?"

His eyes snap open. "_Penny?_"

The redhead lying beside him in bed smiles and places a chaste kiss on his cheek. "Of course, who else?"

Billy makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

"You were mumbling something in your sleep, you okay?" Penny asks with concern clear in her voice.

"Mmmm...'Course I am," He replies, still sleepy and disoriented from waking up and finding his crush in bed with him.

He groans as he sits up, the blanket falling off of his bare chest and pooling at his slim waist. He frowns.

"Uhm... What happened last night?" Billy has absolutely no recollection of whatever may have happened prior to his waking up.

It's Penny turn to frown. "You mean... You don't remember? _Nothing?_" She adds incredulously after a blonde head shakes from side to side.

"Well, then let me remind you..." Her voice has acquired a slightly quality as she leans into him.

Their noses touch, then their lips brush...

Then he wakes up.

His eyes open for a second time, but instead of being greeted with a redhead beside him in a brightly-painted room with sunlight shining through the frilly, white-lace curtains, the doctor's eyes register a more familiar sight: a small, messy room with clothes (both clean and dirty) and other objects strewn across the floor, a single window in the corner shielded by a simple white shade.

Breathing heavily, the doctor sits up, hair damp with sweat. He instinctively, reaches for the small picture frame lying face-down on the nightstand beside him. Crabbing the small object from where it lies, he squeezes in his hand, grateful for the small comfort it gives.

"Penny." His hoarse voice is barely above a whisper as he brings the photograph carefully to his eyes. Penny smiles behind a sheet of glass, oblivious of the camera shutter that had captured the moment. That was the second time he had seen her. He was washing his labcoats, one of which just happened to contain a flash-free camera in on of the pockets, whose shutter button he had just happened to press.

Dr. Horrible sighs and sets down the photo. It's ten o'clock AM, according to his alarm clock. He needs to get out of bed—or rather, he needed to a good three hours ago. But today, he is feeling strangely sluggish; instead of doing what he should, he switches on the radio.

"_Hello, I love you,_

_Won't you tell me your name?_

_Hello—"_

The doctor abruptly switches the station.

"_Thursday doesn't even start,_

_It's Friday I'm in love._

_Satur—"_

The dial is turned again.

"_I'm not saying that our love is the greatest_

_But I'm in love with you,_

_Wanna stay in love with you,_

_So I'm gonna—"_

A hand slams the 'off' button on the radio with so much force that a sound of cracking plastic is heard and the owner of the said hand withdraws it, hissing obscenities. Why do so many damn bands have to write about love? Is there really not a more interesting topic to serenade people with?

The still slightly throbbing hand runs its fingers through blonde hair, then rests beside the owner's body. Dr. Horrible exhales, seemingly deflating along with the expel of air; despite the seven hours of sleep (which is a lot, considering his customary three hours), he is still tired. He closes his eyes and in minutes he is asleep.

--

Bright sunlight filters through the shade and assaults Dr. Horrible's eyes, telling him that perhaps now is a good time to get his lazy self out of bed. He mumbles something along the lines of 'damn sun,' and rolls over, squashing his face against the sparsely-stuff pillow his head was resting on moments ago. He stays in that position for a few minutes, his breath warming the cushion, before he decides that he really has spent too much time in bed.

He groans as he rolls over, and then sits up in his tiny cot. Upon doing so, however, he immediately regrets it; a wave of dizziness washes over him, causing him to slump back against the headboard. His head is pounding and there is a dull, continuous ache in his stomach. It's a good thing he hasn't eaten anything, he thinks as he slides out of bed and heads to the kitchen for a glass of water, crimson blanket trailing behind him.

As he reaches the kitchen his walk picks up speed and he sinks into the only chair in the room, head spinning. He reaches for an object on the weathered table, a capped water bottle lying carelessly on its side. He twists the cap off and tilts the plastic bottle towards his open mouth. Some of the water manages to makes it into his mouth, but the better part of the liquid misses, darkening his shirt and sticking it to his flushed skin. His shirt acquired more pitch-black spots due to a violent coughing fit that burns his lungs.

Afraid that another swig of water may bring the same results, Dr. Horrible cocoons himself in his fuzzy vermilion blanket and trots back to his sleeping quarters.

He immediately flops onto his bed and closes his eyes. His headache is worse than ever, he's shivering, and his eyesight is blurred. Whether he passes out or actually falls asleep is unclear as his eyelids droop closed and his breathing deepens.

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A/N_:_So, that's it for Chapter 6, I hope that was enjoyable. ;) It's my longest chapter so far. :D As for the songs... The first one is _Hello, I Love You_ by The Doors (Awesome Old Song is Awesomely Old), the second is _Friday I'm in Love_ by The Cure (80s FTW), and the last one is _Live Alone_ by my most favourite band of all time, Franz Ferdinand. Alex is so sexyl. (Sorry, inside joke. I couldn't resist. D: ) Oh, and on a completely random note... Rowan, YOU MUST WATCH A WAY BACK TO THEN FROM [TOS]. YES, YOU. I KNOW YOU'RE THERE. NOW GO WATCH IT. IT'S NEARLY AS GOOD AS 9PFT. ;D

...Review please. Every time you don't an incredibly attractive doctor falls ill! :O


	8. Chapter 7: Black

A/N: Hey everyone, I'm back with a nice quick update, a Christmas present! :D Nah, I might make a real Christmas DHSAB fic, but don't expect it to be on time. I was busy visiting family on Christmas, so here's Chapter 7, a day late. Eh, that's not extremely bad, right? :p This chapter is from Penny's POV, I know, it's weird... I just wanted to make something from her POV, because it's only been Billy's and a little of Johnny's POV so far. I haven't been in a coma and hopefully never will, so I don't know if what I wrote is actually pertaining to someone in a coma.

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It's dark.

Maybe _dark_ isn't enough to describe the crushing blackness that surrounds her, pushing down on her chest and drowning her.

She has always been able to see well at night, even when she was a child. One of the few memories that she has of her brunette father is him ruffling her rust-coloured hair and proudly telling the neighbour that she had eyesight comparable to a cat's; even the darkest of nights could not impair the girl's vision.

But this is different. This time, she can't see anything. She thinks her eyes are closed, but she can't open them. Even if she could, she wouldn't; she's afraid that all she will see is the same darkness that is crushing her under its enormous foot.

She doesn't know where she is, or how she got there. She doesn't know when she got there, or how long she'll be staying. She doesn't know where Terry is, or Billy, or Brad (Captain Hammer insisted that she should call him such when they were alone... or if nobody else was listening).

But she does remember one thing: her name. Who she is. She's Penny. She's the most active volunteer at the Caring Hands homeless shelter. The one with hair that her childhood friends were jealous of. She briefly wonders whether those friends are still envious of the naturally red hair that she takes pride in.

Again, she wonders where she is. She can't feel anything, and she can't move. Is this what it's like to die, she wonders. Awfully boring, she muses. Just lying in nothingness for eternity? No heaven, no hell, just bone-crushing darkness? Or maybe she is in limbo, not living, not dead. Waiting for God to decide if she was naughty or nice during her time on the mortal earth and send to heaven—or the less desirable hell.

A door closes. A door? No, that can't be right. A door in the middle of nowhere? But a door closing isn't really a sound to mistake for something else. Especially in a place where nothing else can be heard.

"Hey, little sis," she hears. The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but Penny can't seem to match it with a face or name.

"I brought you gillies. Your favourite, remember?"

_Terry?_ It has to be him. He's the only one who knows that she's infatuated with those star-shaped flowers. But what's he doing here? There's nothing here, so why is he here?

"Sorry, Penny."

Oh.

Bad memories come back to her, things that she had tried to bury in her mind's deepest crevices, drown in its vastest oceans. Her teenage years from fifteen on aren't exactly something to be brought up at the dinner table. (Or breakfast table, or lunch table, or café table, for that matter.)

"I guess I was kinda harsh on you, huh?"

Yes, you were. Just kinda, though, don't worry.

"Sorry, sis."

This time, she can tell that he means it, truly. Not like last time, when sarcasm coated his voice and dripped off of every syllable.

"Sorry."

She can hear the regret and the pain in his voice. And now, she truly forgives him.

"Get better soon, huh?"

Wait, what? Get better? What's that supposed to mean? Does it have to do with her being nowhere, literally?

She hears soft footsteps, and somehow, miraculously, she manages to gather all of her energy (which, of course, is not much at all) and murmur an "Apology accepted" as her brother closes the door.

* * *

A/N: Yeah, so this is like Chapter 3 from Penny's POV, because I wanted to show what she was feeling and stuff. It's mainly a filler chapter, but since I'm on winter break I might be able to get another chapter up soon. :3 I dunno about Captain Hammer's name, it's just something that popped into my head. But if you want some sort of reference, then one of the members in the band Linkin Park is named Brad. I dunno his last name though, and I don't even like LP that much. Metal-wise, I prefer Lacuna Coil. :p But it's my sister's favourite band, and she has lots of pictures of them around. Happy /late/ Christmas everyone!


	9. Chapter 8: Memorial

A/N: - Oh Gawd, I'm SO sorry. This hasn't been updated since the new year! Damn school! -fistshake- Well, I finally have this chapter up. And it's the longest chapter yet, so hopefully that will make up for my absence. Don't worry, I AM alive (still...) and will try to update more regularly. School will be over in a bit more than a month, so I'll have lots of time then. :D But that means finals... Which means I won't be on. But I'm working on the next chapter now, so hopefully it'll be finished, proofread and up before too long. :)

Disclaimer: No part of Dr. Horrible belongs to me. TS Eliot doesn't either, unfortunately.

* * *

Three days after Dr. Horrible diagnosed himself with some virus, he is (predictably) feeling no better.

He is sitting up in his cot with a sippy cup filled with ice cubes and Canada Dry on the table next to him and his favourite red fleece blanket over his slightly shivering form. A thin volume of poetry is in his hand, entitled _The Waste Land and Other Poems_; the particular poem that he is reading is on of the 'other poems,' which, according to the page he is opened up to, is called _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.' _Some lines of the poem are underlined, others circled, others with an arrow leading out to a small comment in minute handwriting.

Dr. Horrible frowns at the book, more specifically a certain stanza printed on the page:

_Let us go then, you and I,_

_When the evening is spread out against the sky_

_Like a patient etherised upon a table._

_Streets that follow like a tedious argument_

_Of insidious intent_

_To lead you to an overwhelming question..._

With nothing else to do, the doctor has went through the miniature bookshelf leaning against the wall, scanning the two flimsy wooden shelves in search of something to keep himself busy with until his eyes get tired and slide closed. It works better than counting sheep, anyway. Deciding on a book of T.S. Eliot's poetry, he has already read the title poem twice and the 'Prufrock' poem three times in the last hour, scribbling notes and underlining phrases, yet he is still awake. He just loves Eliot too much to fall asleep while reading one of the man's poems, he guesses.

Armed with a pencil (no. 2, of course) the doctor circles another phrase (_When the evening is spread out against the sky / like a patient etherised upon a table)_ and adds another note (_The evening is like a drugged patient?)_ then places the book of poetry on his nightstand, next to his radio-alarm clock-CD player. He remembers the 'radio incident' a few days ago, which had earned the player a decent-sized crack in the black plastic. Still, curiosity gets the best of him and he presses the 'on' button.

_And it feels_

_And it feels like _

_Heaven's so far away._

_And it feels_

_Yeah it feels like_

_The world has grown cold_

_Now that you've gone away._

His breath catches in his throat. Damn. The _melody_ makes the song sound punkrock (Billy always thought that people said it as if it were one word) but the lyrics beg to differ.

A solo of a few repeated measures leads into

_Leaving flowers on your grave_

_To show that I still care—_

The lines that follow this are lost to the doctor's ears; he had frozen upon hearing that this person is leaving flowers on someone's grave.

Ignoring his pounding head, Dr, Horrible throws the blanket off of his body and kneels beside his nightstand, wrenching a drawer open, digging through its contents until finding one end of a thick, dull silver chain. He pulls it out from under the junk, revealing a pocketwatch with a butterfly-like dangling on an old chain, swinging back and forth like an unsynchronised pendulum. It's a beautiful thing, the doctor thought when he saw it lying on a table at the flea market. But it has been forgotten and is now covered in scratches and some substance that must have leaked from a bottle of some liquid.

Regardless, Dr. Horrible wipes it dry on the black shirt (the one that he has been wearing for nearly a week now) and presses the lock, causing the door to slowly open, revealing an LCD screen, telling the doctor it is two hours past noon on this particular day. He presses a button on the side, switching the digital clock's display to read May. 24 2008.

He sighs, closing his eyes and the digital pocketwatch. It's just like he thought; Penny died two months ago. Billy died along with her, the doctor knows that. This man is the unfeeling Doctor Horrible, not the soft, lovesick Billy Buddy. That man is a mere shadow of disgust to the doctor now.

But Penny _was_ a friend of his... He should pay his respects, right?

The doctor realises that the radio is still on, currently proclaiming that you should switch car insurance. Still contemplating whether or not to visit Billy's late friend's grace, Dr. Horrible pats the radio a few times, when eventually the click of the 'off' button and the lack of an English reptile's voice tells him that his absentminded patting has turned off the radio.

He frowns, rising from the hardwood floor and seating himself on his bed, stumbling a little due to his half-asleep feet. Leaning forward, Dr. Horrible rests his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, trying to rid himself of the small headache that he as acquired. But after staying like this for a few minutes, the doctor's back begins to cramp, and, if anything, his headache has intensified. He tells himself that he'll lie down just for a few minutes, just until his headache is gone. But once he is under the covers he immediately falls asleep, as if the red blanket covering him has acted as an anesthetic, wrapping him in a deep, untroubled sleep.

It isn't until four hours later that Dr. Horrible wakes up again. He rolls to his side with a groan, his eyes falling on his alarm clock and the time it portrayed: 6:00. A small growl escapes his throat. If he were to visit Billy's late friend's grave, it had better be soon; the sun would start going down in a few hours' time, and not even the man with a PhD in Horribleness likes to be in a cemetery at night.

With this in mind, he –somewhat reluctantly—throws back the covers and swings his feet out of bed, the rest of his body following. The doctor somewhat unsteadily makes his way toward his dresser, from where he pulls out a pair of navy jeans and a plain white t-shirt. He pauses for a second, then frowns and stuff the white t-shirt back in the drawer, deciding to keep the black shirt that he's currently wearing. He _is _attending a memorial service of some sort, isn't he?

A quick check of the rest of his drawers reveals that he has no other black articles of clothing, save for that tie from graduation and those ugly socks that Dad bought him as a moving-out present. Oh, and that clip-on bowtie that was part of the water's uniform. But isn't there that old denim jacket, the one that Greg had dunked in India ink as a practical joke, not knowing that the stuff didn't wash away? Yes, he should still have that somewhere. Perhaps in that box of clothes that he didn't wear or couldn't even be burdened to look at anymore. It _should_ be there, at least; he never liked to throw things away because of he figured that they would be useful sometimes in the future.

He strips off the jeans he is currently wearing, replacing them with the cleaner, darker-coloured pair that he is holding, tossing the ones he removed somewhere in a corner. Dr. Horrible slides the heavy wooden door in the wall to the right, revealing the small compartment where he stores boxes upon boxes of various things; towels, bedsheets, blankets, scraps of metal, and odds and ends that have been rescued from the junkyard on the outskirts of the city.

He reaches toward the dark corner of the closet, probing fingertips colliding with rough corrugated cardboard. His hand finds a flap of the old box he is looking for; he pulls and hears a tearing sound. Dr. Horrible withdraws his hand to discover that he has unintentionally—but successfully—separated the flap of cardboard from the rest of the box.

He lets out an exasperated sigh and plunges his arm back in the closet, finding the box and pulling it towards him again. He hears the sounds of ripping cardboard for a second time but is persistent and is finally rewarded with a dilapidated cardboard box, pulled from the confines of his closet, albeit with a ripped side. The doctor tears off the remaining three flaps of the flimsy box, discarding them and left to face that ugly—and terribly itchy—sweater that Auntie Johanna had knitted as a Christmas present. He makes a face and lifts the grey-brown blob of wool with his index finger and thumb and flinging it to the other side of the room.

A few more Science Olympiad and Robotics Club t-shirts later, Dr. Horrible finds what he's looking for: a pitch-black, wrinkled jacket that Billy frequently wore in his time at university. The corners of his mouth quirk upward slightly, remembering the day when the overly-enthusiastic Greg wadded up the faded-blue jacket and thrown it into a tub of ink, later unable to apologise enough when he realised that the jacket was never to be blue again.

Dr. Horrible pulls his once favourite jacket from the box of clothes and stands up, putting the jacket on over his black t-shirt. He is slightly surprised that it still fits; he must have not grown much since university.

He turns to check the time displayed on his alarm clock, discovering that it's half-past six and the sun is just starting to set.

Dr. Horrible turns his back on the black digital clock and walks out of his small bedroom, not forgetting to flick the lightswtich. He slips on a pair of sneakers, not bothering to do up the laces, then walks swiftly out of his house, heading down the street in a similar brisk fashion.

Half an hour later the doctor has reached the small cemetery and he pushes the heavy black gates open, wincing at the loud creaks that sound too much like screaming. He walks cautiously inside, threading lightly as if afraid to stir the dead.

Dr. Horrible scans the graveyard for any relatively new-looking headstones, and finds two rows of lighter-grey lumps of rock.

Her name isn't there.

He carefully re-reads each chiseled headstone for any indication that the red-haired former girlfriend of that corporate tool might be buried here. Hardy... Puget... Holland... Willard...Hoppus... Pierre... Whalen... Smith... What _was _Penny's surname, anyway? Something elegant, the doctor thinks. Willful, yet fragile at the same time. Like a rose, beautiful and delicate but still dangerous. Could that be it, Dr. Horrible thinks. Penny Rose? No, that doesn't sound right. Something less common, but not really that rare. Something that someone could say a million times in their lifetime, know what Webster says that it is, but never truly grasp the meaning of. Something simple yet complicated, classic yet brand-new.

_Hope?_

He freezes when he reads the four-letter name carved into a slightly weathered tombstone. He didn't realise that he had wandered around the graveyard while he was thinking and is surprised when he is standing in a row of older rocks.

_Here lies_

_Michael H. Hope_

_Dec. 29__th__, 1938-May 7, 1984_

_And his wife_

_Lindsey K. Hope_

_March 1, 1940-May 7__th__, 1984_

It certainly fits his criteria. Simple, yet beautiful. Penny Hope.

But where _is _she?

Michael and Lindsey are buried here—her parents, perhaps?—but Penny... Where is _she?_

Maybe he's wrong. What if it _is_ Rose, or Faith? Smith? He frantically scams the nearby headstones for Penny. When he finds no such a name chiseled into rock, he checks over by the tree. It isn't that large of a graveyard, and soon and soon Billy has checked every headstone and found no_—wait,_ what about—no, _that_ one died in 1974—Penny Hope, or any Penny that has died within the last year.

Dr. Horrible suddenly sees red. So, they didn't care about Penny enough to put a headstone for her? She'd lay in an unmarked grave forever? Or maybe she'd been cremated, scattered across the country. Not even a trace that she had ever lived, laughed, loved, died. Just blackened charcoals spread throughout the country.

He looks to the sky and sees that the sun has become just a sliver on the horizon. Which means that it's already set, it's just that we won't see the effects for another seven minutes, he thinks. The doctor takes one last glance at the Hopes' grave, anger still bubbling inside of him. Dr. Horrible turns on his heel and all but runs out of the cemetery. By the time he makes it home the seven minutes left of the sunlight have faded and night has taken over the warm, cloudless spring day.

Billy's cheeks are wet.

* * *

A/N: Well, that's it for chapter eight! Now to explain all the references I incorporated. :P So, first and most obviously, the book that Dr. Horrible has is real, and it's a great collection of poetry by the amazing TS Eliot. Really, check him out. He's great. The song that he hears on the radio is _Gone Away_ by The Offspring, an amazing band, my second-favourite. The digital pocketwatch the just something I made up, I don't know if they exist in real life. His auntie is named after Benjamin Barker's daughter in the play _Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. _Her name is actually spelled like that. His college buddy Greg is named after the bassist in The Offspring, Gregory Kriesel, more commonly known as Greg K. Hardy is Bob Hardy, the bassist from Franz Ferdinand. Puget is Jade Puget, the guitarist from AFI. Holland is Dexter Holland, the frontman from The Offspring. Willard is Adam 'Atom' Willard, the former drummer of The Offspring and drummer of Angels & Airwaves. Hoppus is Mark Hoppus, the bassist from Blink-182 and an amazing music producer. Pierre is Justin Pierre, the frontman from Motion City Soundtrack. Whalen is MATT WHALEN! The drummer from The Matches. Smith is Robert Smith, the amazing frontman from The Cure. None of them are actually dead, and I hope they don't anytime soon. :( Michael is from the Franz Ferdinand song, and H stands for Huntley, Franz Ferdinand's frontman's mum's maiden name. December 29th is Dexter Holland's birthday. Lindsey is a bastardisation of Lynsey, a name from a Franz Ferdinand song. K stands for Karen, the name of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs's lead. March 1st is the day that _Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street_ debuted on Broadway. May 7th is the day that I went to my first concert, Angels & Airwaves. This year. Faith is the surname that The Happy Monkey of Doom has given Penny in his mind. :3

Okay, that's it. Phew. So, make my day and review. :)


	10. Chapter 9: Denial

A/N: Hey. So, it's about time for an update? right? ^^; I thought that summer was going to be full of wonderful updates and everything, but then that thing called life got in the way. D: And school's starting soon. DD: As for this chapter, it's a bit of a filler, honestly. D: It's really short and badly written, I'm really sorry. :( Just as a warning, there is a bit of language in this chapter. It is a T-rated fic, but just as a little warning. Oh, and excuse the crappy title, please. I couldn't think of anything. D8

Disclaimer: Lolno.

* * *

"_Horrible!"_

"Hmm?" Dr. Horrible is roused from his reverie by Snake Bite.

"I said—" The rest of her sentence is lost to the doctor's ears as he once against drifts off into his daydream.

"Well?" The doctor lets out a small, barely audible grumble as Snakebite's sharp voice once again invades his thoughts.

"Hm—yeah, sure. That sounds great. A wonderful idea."

A ripple of exasperated noises spreads through the room. Bad Horse Snorts quietly. Dr Horrible doesn't react, having slipped back into his own world.

Fury Leika sighs; almost half a year in the Evil League of Evil and he's still like this. As if he feels _sorry_ for killing Captain Hammer's girlfriend.

The next few minutes are spent in silence, interrupted by the quiet sounds of human idleness: drumming fingers, cracking knuckles, bored sighs. Finally the League's leader gives the traditional disbanding whinny and the members all stand from their chairs in unison, then walk to the main entrance at varying paces and go their separate ways.

Dr. Horrible has taken off his labcoat and it is now draped over his arm, revealing the Talking Heads t-shirt he's wearing underneath the said coat. It's a warn day outside, but the doctor still wears black jeans, frayed at the hem with holes in both knees Hiss goggles are around his neck and the laces of his sneakers are untied, making soft _clack_ing sounds as the plastic ends hit the sidewalk.

He reaches the building in which he lives, enters it, and sighs, having forgotten the mail outside of his room. Sometimes he almost misses Moist to get his mail and discuss evil schemes with.

He throws his labcoat on a couch and kicks off his sneakers, then flops down on a sofa. Dr. Horrible reaches for the remote and uses it to turn on the small television in the room, and flips to the news. A picture of his arch-nemesis is displayed. He scowls.

"…condition still remains unknown. That's it for tonight, folks! Tune in tomorrow to hear about—"

The reporter managed to say as much before he is effectively silenced with the press of a button.

Dr. Horrible sighs and leans back into the sofa, and hand over his tired eyes, massaging them. He hasn't been sleeping well lately, working on projects all night and unable to fall asleep when he retires for the night—or rather, the morning. He needs to work on his Freeze Ray 2.0, he reminds himself. He's been meaning to test a new component that arrived in the mail yesterday; he thinks that it might help with charging up faster and not breaking down as fast.

With this on his mind, his eyes flutter shut.

A pebble bounces over uneven concrete, coming to a stop only to be kicked again. Worn sneakers with untied laces tread angrily over the sidewalk, moving quickly away from the hospital. The wearer of these shoes is livid, his breathing heavy and his face red with rage. He looks so menacing that the few others on the sidewalk that he is approaching step off onto the road or someone's lawn to give him plenty of room to stamp through.

He keeps up his agitated page until he reaches his apartment complex, which he enter and takes to stairs to the third floor, entering his room with a key he has in his back pocket.

Terrence Hope collapses on the first piece of furniture he encounters and runs a hand through his short light brown hair, letting out a hard sigh nixed with a small growl in the back of his throat. Currently he's trying to refrain to bringing out his dad's old pistol from the box in the closet and shooting everyone in that goddamn hospital. He knows it won't do any good, and he'd most likely be given the death penalty or a lifelong sentence, and he'd probably end up killing the doctors that could save his sister's life—no, that really _wouldn't_ help. At all. In the slightest bit.

Terry winces and cracks his neck, then his knuckles, then his back. He kicks off his old sneakers that he hadn't even been bothered to tie in the first place, and slumps down further into his armchair, trying to banish the earlier events of today that lingered in his mind like something foul in his mouth.

_"She's my fucking _sister_!" Penny's brother angrily tried to push his way through the security guards blocking his entrance into the hospital._

_ "We're perfectly aware of that fact," said one of the men preventing him from entering, "however, she is in a fragile sta—" He was abruptly cut off by Terry, rage bubbling in his voice._

_ "A _fragile state_?" She's been in a fucking _coma_ for the past four months!"  
_

_"Yes, exactly, so visiting her would be—"_

_ "_Oh_, so now I can't even _look_ at my sister? _Pardon me_ for my contrary thinking, _sir_!" His last word was coated in so much venomous sarcasm that the guard dealing with him flinched slightly. Terry noticed and sneered, a small sense of triumph in him._

_ He says, "Fine. Have it your way, you bastards. Good riddance."_

_ With that, Penny Hope's brother turned on his heel and stormed away._

Dr. Horrible's eyes open. He is disoriented at first, but then remembers how exhausted he was when he returned from the League meeting; he must have fallen asleep when he arrived at home. He stretches and winces; having fallen asleep in an armchair, his back and neck are terribly stiff. He groans and stands from the armchair he had been sleeping in, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He then frowns, noticing the lack of sunlight coming in through the windows, and peeks out through the blinds. His frown deepens when he sees that darkness shrouds the world outside his dwelling. He turns to the clock on the wall and sees that it's 11 o'clock, and realizes that he must have been more tired that he thought when he came home.

The doctor yawns, and discovers that he's still tired despite his long nap. He walks sluggishly to his bedroom, too tired to do much more than collapse on his bed and pull the blanket out from under him to cover himself.

* * *

A/N: Well, there you go. Terry has quite a temper, as you can see. XD; He's pretty much me, except older. And a boy. He lives on the third floor because three is my favourite number. :3 Oh, and Talking Heads. They're epicness. So yes, a crappy chapter, but please review anyway. D: Let's see if I can reach thirty reviews, hm? c:


	11. Chapter 10: A Year

A/N: ...I'm sorry. :C

I've been super-busy with schoolwork (although it's paying off, I have all As and Bs so far) and I just simply couldn't be bothered to do anything about this.

Disclaimer: AHAHAHAHAHAHA. No.

_

* * *

A year. _That's how long it's been. A year since that asshole 'Horrible' had gone and tried to kill his sister. She hasn't woken yet, but she will soon, he tells himself. That's what he's _been _telling himself for the past year, yet he never ceases to be gullible enough to fall into the trap he's set for himself.

He sighs.

_ A year._ Dr. Horrible pauses in his typing at this thought. A year since he had joined the League. Since he had killed the girl who at one point in his life meant so much to him, despite her never noticing him. The one that—he mentally shakes himself and resumes typing from where he left off. The doctor saves and shuts the lid of his laptop.

He sighs.

_ A year. _Dr. Andrew Zimmerman, MD, flops down on an armchair with a Styrofoam cup of coffee and takes long a sip. This proves to not be the wisest idea, however, as the steaming beverage burns his tongue. Nevertheless, he is not deterred by the temperature of his drink and takes another gulp. He then places the now half-empty cup of coffee on the table conveniently beside him, leaning back with a sigh.

He think about the girl in the permanent ward, comatose for—how long has it been now? A year? He wonder if she'll ever wake up. Maybe it's her not wanting to wake up that's the problem. Who _would_ want to, though, when a supervillain like that is still actively… villaining? And if he finds she's not dead (which he hasn't, thanks to whatever being is up there), he'll kill her until she's _very_ dead.

He sighs.

* * *

A/N: I know, super short. :c But this is setting up a lot of things for the future. :3 So review?


	12. This isn't a chapter but read it anyway

Well, shit.

I gave up on this fic a while ago, as all of you have most likely noticed. It wasn't really a conscious thing, it just sort of happened.

But looking back on this, I realise that hey, maybe my writing isn't so shitty and I shouldn't have stopped, because it looks like damn fun. Looking at its reviews makes me sad. It reminds me of all the fics I loved and were never finished.

So.

I'm going to be doing a major overhaul of this, because it's kind of shitty as it is (even though I just praised my writing a few sentences ago). I like some bits, but others are just terrible and I wonder what the hell I was thinking.

I'm pretty sure everyone has given up on this, but if you're still there, shoot me a message! I'll most likely respond. You guys are all awesome.


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